


Deliverance

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:52:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder and Walter go fly-fishing in Kentucky -- strange doings in the backwoods.





	Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Deliverance by Spike (with Te on slide guitar)

"Deliverance"  
by Spike (with Te on slide guitar)  
3/99  
Disclaimer: Acrid Slime! Dismal Rice! Claims Dire! No matter how I try to rearrange things, they don't belong to me  
Summary: Mulder and Walter go fly-fishing in Kentucky -- strange doings in the backwoods.  
Rating: NC-17 for mixed messages, sex and sarcastic humming  
WARNING: some folks have found a disturbing subtext to this story.  
Notes: This started off as random smuttiness with Te and then I promised I would make it into a story, so I did.  
Thanks: to Ti' Zoot and my Nonie-twin for tolerance and wonderbeta.  
All remaining errors or squicks are my own wilfulness at play.  
Archive: sure, just ask.  
URL: http://avalon.net/~nonie/spike/spindex.htm  
Feedback: Any and all to 

* * *

"Deliverance" by Spike (with Te on slide guitar)

As Skinner's Buick crosses the state line into Kentucky, Mulder decides he's not going to take this lying down. The coin toss had been fair and square, but if Walter got to decide where they were going to spend their week off, he could have compromised a *smidge* on how. Mulder had no problem with the backwoods. Hell, there were monsters and myths up the wazoo all through the Blue Ridge Mountains, but would they be finding them? No. Would they then be missing out on them because they were doing something worthwhile --like fucking themselves stupid day and night in some quaint Southren B&B? No, they would not.

What they will be doing, Walter tells him, is fly-fishing, or as Mulder likes to think of it: standing up to their rubber-wader clad asses in cold water embarassing themselves in front of fish. Trout. He doesn't even like trout -- all those little bones -- and Walter had been such a *hardass* about it.

"If you're coming, you're fishing," he'd said. "Bottom line."

Set jaw and scowl -- something has been eating at him all week and Mulder hasn't been able to prise it out of him. Fishing. Sleeping bags and mud and hours of silent contemplation. Mulder shudders at the thought, but the alternative is a week without any Walter at all, and that thought is even worse, so Mulder goes.

But he doesn't go easy.

Merciless all the way down from Virginia in the car. Teasing.

//C'mon Walter, tell me I have a purdy mouth..."

Goading him...

//Do you hear banjos? I hear banjos... Come on, let's go into town tonight and find ourselves some cousins... //

And when they reach the *spot*, when Walter folds up his little map and sets up the tent and puts on his waders and heads off down the path without so much as waiting for Mulder to properly begin his whine...

When Mulder finds him again, slogging after him through the hot and humid forest with the idiotic waders dangling and bouncing down his back only to be told to shut up and stop scaring the fish. Well. Mulder breaks.

He'd meant to stretch the Deliverance riff out for the entire trip. He ends up running his mouth for twenty minutes solid, some suicidal drive to pound the hideous material -- impressions and all -- at the back of Walter's resolutely motionless head until he reels in his line. Turns.

Everything goes very quiet in the woods.

But Walter is so calm coming out of the water. Carefully stacks the rod and reels. Pulls off the waders. Smiles, for God's sakes.

Sheer luck and a horsefly bite are the only thing that save Mulder's ass from the bear hug that launches itself his way. Mulder yips like the wicked little pup he knows he is and takes off at record speed.

Through the bushes, into the woods. He'd have done better on a long flat stretch of open ground, but there isn't anything like that closer than the road and Mulder knows that he is running for his *ass*.

Running far and fast into the woods. Skinner following for a while but Mulder's loose, mile-eating stride loses him pretty quick. Not much longer after that Mulder stops. Out of breath, sweat thick on his skin in the humid heat. Crickets buzzing. He looks around, feeling a little buzz of nerves. Maybe a little...spooked. He *is* a city boy after all. And this isn't just woods, it's backcountry. Deep, dark and very old.

He listens for Walter, waits for him to catch up. Deliverance isn't sounding *quite* so hilarious now, which irritates him, so he twangs out a bit of Dueling Banjos - "Dur dah dur dur dur dur dur dur dahhhn..."

Nothing. Deliberate sounding silence. Okay, ha ha, very funny.

"Come on, Walter... It's too hot for this..." A little petulant. Nothing. He turns back, starts walking back the way he came. He hopes.

Was the underbrush this thick? The trees this close? It's shady here, but not quite cool. It gets even darker farther on. He hasn't come *that* far. How lost could he be? And Walter's around here somewhere, playing little games. And Mulder makes a note to himself to figure out when Walter got so *good* at little games.

Still. Hot. Wet under his fine linen shirt, tan cotton twills. There's the sound of water from the shady spot. Hell with it, he heads for it.

Into the deep green shadows and he has to squeeze through underbrush, jumps at the tickle of spiderweb across his face, brushing at himself and so his guard is down when a strong forearm wraps around his throat.

"You're a long way from New York City, Slick..."

Graveled voice at his ear, Bubba twang... Mulder swallows, feels his Adam's apple catch against the furred, muscled flesh of the arm.

Smart ass remarks tumble through his brain, none of them really clever, hardly making sense because pressed up close and hard he feels the solid heat of a big man's body, redolent of sweat and river water, faintly laced with bourbon...

Moment of doubt and swallowed fear. It *is* Walter, isn't it? The feel is right, the smell... but there's a... vibe.

No mercy in the voice. None. He feels himself grow hard.

"Don't..." he croaks. He means to say 'Don't hurt me.' but the syllable is squeezed to nothing as the arm tightens just that much...

Another hand comes around -- hard, hot hand, big as a plate --glides possessively up and down his torso. Belly to chest, rough grind of palm across his nipples. He makes a little choking gasp. Enough air but *just* enough...

Low sound in the back of the big man's throat. The hand comes back across the nipple, chafes it through the shirt -- linen abrades damp flesh. Mulder can't help but arch into it. His ass pushes back against unmistakable hardness.

"You like that, city boy?" the dark voice growls around an audibly lascivious grin. "You like it when I touch your titties?" Mulder wants to laugh, shake it off, but the heel of the hand is grinding again and it feels too good. He arches again. Gasps.

Green shadows sparkle at the edge of his vision and his cock throbs hard.

"Wa--" he gasps, but it's just a whisper. And the arm lets up a little -- or is it that he stops arching so hard against it. He's feeling weak. Sweet all over. It's *got* to be Walter, but not being able to ask...

The hand is roving again, hard steady rub -- chest to belly, pressure down his fly to cup him, squeeze. "Yeah, you like that a lot."

Hot breath in his ear. "City boy..."

"Wh-what--" Mulder husks out again. "What are you going to...do...?"

"Look at you," the dark voice laughs. "You don't even try to fight. You city boys are all alike..."

Belated shock of fear and Mulder brings his hands up to tug at that tree trunk arm, kicks back. Tries an elbow to the sturdy ribs. But not too hard. It's Walter. He *knows* it's Walter. Was Walter wearing flannel? He can't remember. And god, he's hard.

He might as well be beating at King Kong's chest with girly fists for all the effect it has. Well, he can feel one effect, burning hot against the cleft of his ass even through denim and cotton twill. The big man thrusts. "Oh yeah, wiggle it around boy. Just like that."

Another heavy thrust from behind nearly lifts him off his feet, and the arm jarred loose enough to get a real breath, yell out: "*Walter...*"

"Oh yeah," the voice goes on, low and breathy and laughing against the side of his neck. "You go on and yell, son. Go on. Loud as you like..." The arm tightens up again, implacable -- the other hand fastens on his cock, strokes him hard, unyielding. Mulder can feel the horns of callous through the thin cotton cloth, stripping pleasure the runs up and down his thighs and he is helpless not to follow the motion with his hips. And the voice still twanging in his ear.

"And then I'm gonna make you yell even louder..." Hard squeeze and he does just that and the big man is grinding Mulder against his cock and murmuring in his ear: "You think I don't know what you're doing out in these woods, pretty city boy? You think I don't know what you want? I know what you want." And all the while his big, hard hand is moving, circling, rubbing. Then the thick fingers flick open the clasp of Mulder's fly, yank the zipper down. It catches near the bottom as he pulls away. But nowhere to go and the hand is inside, fondling him roughly through his damp cotton briefs.

"You're creaming like a woman, Slick," the dark voice laughs. Big hand pulls out and without warning jerks his pants and briefs down to his thighs. They fall the rest of the way to knees, then ankles, puddling there. Big boot kicks Mulder's tangling feet apart, rough denimed knee slides in between his bare thighs, grazing his sac.

And Mulder is suddenly wriggling desperately within that grasp, not sure if he's struggling for freedom or writhing for more contact or both at once. If it's Walter, it's good, so *good* and if it isn't...oh god...

But it *has* to be. It is. It must be...

"Slut..." the big man drawls and all at once the pinning arm releases him. Mulder pitches forward, lands on hands and bare knees in the dirt, pants tangled around his pale ankles. Sweaty and red faced, hot flush high on his cheeks and a little scared too.

More than a little scared. Just getting harder, though...

Oh but god, he needs to turn and look. Make sure it's Walter Skinner there, breathing harsh against the softness of the air, unzipping his pants, big boots rustling in the mulch of forest floor. Instinct, something...Mulder starts to crawl away, twigs and gravel under his knees but hands close on his hips and drag him back

"Where you goin' sweet thing...?" low and soft. And, no -- fun is fun but Mulder *has* to know. And turns his head.

The ringing, stinging *smack* as one big, hard hand comes down drags a choked, strangled cry from Mulder's throat and one ass-cheek is on *fire*...

"Don't turn around, boy." Hard as stone. And there's just nothing he can do. Utterly helpless, sticky with his own fear-sweat, throbbing and being given away. Both hands back on his narrow hips, hold him firm, caress the tingling skin. Thick thumbs travel to the crack, spread his cheeks...

Something much too big and blunt and hot nudges his entrance...

Mulder moans. He knows he's over his head, he's way too far from home. But ohhhh... He can feel the man's pre-come slicking at him...

Pre-come of his own shooting down his cock, drooling crystal strings to the dry leaves under his belly. His breath so thick it sobs, his face is so *hot*.

"You want this, don't you, boy?"

Oh yes oh yes...but he doesn't dare say it, bites his lips. A wringing moan escapes. His hips twist, push back. First taste of pain as the target humps itself against the arrow, but:

"Say it. Say it or you won't get any of this." And the man pulls back, leaving the chill damp air to sting his slick hole...

"Nuh-no...god...*please*..." cracked. His voice sounds broken. Hips wriggle back on empty empty air...

"You're a slut, boy. I knew it when I saw you, all uptight and superior... you didn't really think you'd make it out of here before I had my taste, did you? Now *say* it."

Ohhh. And the word slams right through him. Slut. Mulder writhes on it, wiggles on it.

"Yeahhhh..." He's panting, breathless. "Slut. Yeah...fu-fu-fuck..."

"I didn't hear you."

Unnngh. Cock swings heavy hot between his thighs. "Oh...oooh...ffffuck. Fuck...me." Every word is like a hard hand sliding rough and slippery across his shaft. Every word a shot of fear like good acid..

His ass is bucking. Fuck. Me. Fuck. Me. Fuck...

His hands are swept from beneath him, leaving his face mashed with little dignity against leaves and loam. "If you want it, show me."

Wriggling, moaning, dry leaves and dirt press against his mouth, stick to the wet slip of his tongue. He wriggles harder. Ass high and wild. He reaches back to grab his cock...

... hands immediately slapped away. "Nuh-uh, boy. That's mine. You know what I want you to do."

"I...don't. Tell me. Any-anything. I'll do anything...please..."

The man's cock squeezes between the cheeks of his ass, runs slowly down the crack but doesn't pause at his aching hole. "Spread 'em for me, boy. Yeah..." The man sounds a little breathless.

A whimper skitters out Mulder's throat. Deep blush of shame. Oh yes o god o yes. He reaches back. His cheeks -- one fire hot, the other cold -- he pulls the cheeks apart. Oh god so helpless, open.

And then that cock -- so huge against his tender flesh -- is pressed to him again. He feels it brush a little against his fingertips and shivers, pushes back...

Another burst of fear. It' *real*. It's happening. Now. He forces his ass to relax, Thick slick head blunt sticks inside. Cork in his aching bottle and he already feels so full.

Another short thick thrust...

...and Mulder cries out. Such a little sound. Dirt on his tongue rich and gritty.

"ahhhhh..."And he can barely hear himself over the drum in his ears, but when the dark voice comes --"That's it.. take it all, Slick... c'mon..."-- it's all the sound in the universe.

He humps back on it. No grace no dignity. He *is* a slut. Giving himself to this big, sweat reeking man with the smell of the backwoods on him. Impaling himself, back and back. Wild, raw sounds. Animal noises. Aches so good and deep.

And when those thick, callused hands curl around his hips again, he's grateful for the stilling weight, grateful to the man for taking control. There is a breath when he can only feel that thick cock skewering him, and then the man squeezes a little less gently, pulls him closer, all that heavy glide inside.

"Don't you *worry*, boy. You're gonna get it all. Feel that?" The man's hands are over Mulder's hands, pushing on him, pulling back. He couldn't hold himself back if he tried. He feels enormous --stretched over something big and hard and heating him from inside.

"Oh Christ yes, please --"And then the man shifts him, easy as any fine piece of rump and slams in again. The angle this time makes him howl with the thrusts, and he can hear it echoing in the empty woods. Disturbing them. He is a slut, a noisy, greedy slut that needed that oh needed....

...and got. Oh god he's going to pay for this maybe never get out but ohh ohh ohhh that cock is slamming lightning through him, spark of stone on stone and he can't spread wide enough, can't take it deep enough. The man is grunting deep and slamming hard and he wants harder more more more...

"Oh yeah," the big man's murmuring with every thrust. "You are *one* sweet *whore* of a city boy, you are. Come out to *my* woods looking to get *fucked*, hunh? Spread yourself like that, *begging* for it... Give yourself to anyone... *anyone*. Say it, slut!"

And the slamming slams the words right out of his mouth

"Oh...oh...anyone...yeah..."

"Thought so, Slick," the dark voice growls. And then rough fingers take hold of him, milking him mercilessly and Mulder cries out, truly beyond caring whose hand it is, whose cock is splitting him from end to end. He's just one raw channel of pleasure and his orgasm starts somewhere around the base of his spine, shooting through him and the sudden deep, liquid heat as the big man's cock explodes inside him, takes him over the edge and down.

And down. Mulder blinks. He's lying there on the ground. He's missed a beat. He's flat on his belly, ass empty and sticky-wet. His whole body is boneless, echoing the throbbing pulse of his orgasm. He feels sleep dragging a blanket across his brain, but something nagging...

It takes him a minute or two to realize, the sound -- heavy footsteps crunching away through the loam and leaves.

"Hey," he scrambles to his hands and knees, or tries. Pants tangled round his feet and his muscles are all rubber and grit. By the time he's up and zipping up his fly the sound of footsteps has faded.

"Fuck," Mulder says aloud. He's hot-faced again. Blushing. The fading tingle of pleasure sparking now with fear again.

//what if it wasn't him what if I...? *Jesus*...// It hits him again and again. But there's no *way* . He knows it's Walter. Knows...

He brushes dirt off his knees, and staggers back into daylight. The air is thicker now, with buzzing flies, the afternoon's accumulated heat. Mulder heads toward the sound of water, finds himself eventually back beside the stream. Crouches down at water's edge to splash himself with water so cold it's bitter. Walks on and finally Walter comes into view. He's standing in the water to his ass, the whir and wind of flycast carries to Mulder on the faint breeze.

He waves at Mulder as he approaches, but doesn't call to him, doesn't come to shore. Mulder sits down on the spot he'd left. stares at the familiar broad back and shoulders.

//It was you,// he thinks at Walter, feeling oddly sullen. He likes games, but....

But.

He is still aching, wet and slick between his thighs, something feverish running hot and cold under his skin. It's late afternoon already, the quality of the light has changed. Skinner casts his flies, reels them in. Mulder watches, drowsy in the heat, poised unbearably between calling him over and...not. And then he can't stand it any longer.

"Walter," he says.

"What is it, Mulder?" Walter asks. And he is frozen again, impaled in memory upon that raging, stranger's cock. So fucking *good*.

"Nothing..." he says. "Never mind." But Walter turns anyway, and reels in his line and then wades in to sit on the bank at Mulder's side. Mulder watches him pull off the waders. He is wearing jeans, boots, a blue and white plaid flannel shirt. All lean hard muscle underneath and Mulder wants nothing, *no-one* else. He leans against Walter's arm, presses his face hard into the bicep, thinking: please, please, please...

"Looks like that run plumb wore you out," says Walter. Mulder, barely listening, just rubs his face against the soft sleeve, breathing Walter in. Slow penetration, but the words finally settle in his inner ear.

"Plumb?" Mulder turns his head to quirk a dubious scowl at Walter's profile: "*Plumb*??? You son of a --" But Mulder's outrage is tempered with relief and guilt and admiration and he's laughing, shaking his head, fisting his hands in the flannel sleeve and shaking Walter --already-laughing Walter, who twangs out: "Dur dah dur dur dur dur dur dur dahhhn..." while Mulder hammers mock fury at his chest and shoulders and then rolls over to pin Mulder to the ground, take his mouth in gentle, searing kiss.

By the time they break apart, both are smiling. All the tension's gone from Walter's face, sunburnt nose and cheeks and without his glasses and the sunshine sparkling in his eyes, he's simply beaming. Love like a silken ribbon winds and winds itself around Mulder's heart until it aches. Nothing, no-one else. Ever.

"I knew it was you," Mulder says. Lies.

Walter chuckles, lies back on the grassy, canted riverbank, big hard hands clasped behind his head.

"Did'ja now, Slick," he says in a dark, low, merciless voice that runs straight through Mulder -- heart to cock to brain.

And like coming up from muddy water to breathe a full, clean lungful of air, Mulder finally *gets* it. Finally knows without a doubt that Walter knows just how much that was and wasn't true. And how much it doesn't matter, maybe better than Mulder does himself,

And somehow, without any explanation, understands the rest as said.

=end=


End file.
